Prophetess

Her words rise 

like yeast as she stands 

at the pulpit with eyes 

that cut the sky. It is not

a loveless sermon​

but a soft, ancient song

of redemption—

One that flows

in whispers of less

trying to be good, less 

milking of obedience,

less squeezing to save

from a rock bed

of self loathing.

A weightless grace

bubbles up as she

topples my blunder

of pining for a God

already here,

a river of gold

within and beneath.

She lifts her skirt,

wades into the river,

and speaks. 

She does not seem to care

which words come out,

only that they drip

with tenderness,

spill out of her

from the deepest well

of her gospel bones,

baptizing me 

in the stream

of my original face—-

And I am laughing,

resurrected here, now

in naked stunning truth.

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Published in Say More: At Last She Writes It, 2023